Still Talking When You're Not There
by sevenpercent
Summary: Conversations between Sherlock and John after the Fall, before the Return. Multi-chapter- expect the full range- angst, friendship, humour, sadness. A dialogue of the mind. If you like these, read Talking When You're Not There and Talking When You're Not There- Revisited, both one-shots.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **If you like these, read _Talking When You're Not There_ and _Talking When You're Not There- Revisited_, both one-shots.

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

"What are you doing?"

It's in the middle of the night. February in Almaty, Kazakhstan. There's a stray dog barking somewhere out there in the snow. Minus 19 centigrade outside, with six foot long icicles hanging down from the eaves of the rundown Soviet era hotel. Sherlock is feeling cold, hungry and alone, trying to find some respite before the morning, when he launches his campaign against the two "consultant criminals" who have been siphoning large quantities of this Central Asian republic's oil wealth into illegal bank transfers. Protected by a network of corrupt law enforcement officials and a few of the president for life's favourite nephews, this pair have their fingers in so many pies it is hard to keep count: heroin smuggling over the Tien Shen mountains from Afghanistan, people trafficking from Tajikistan into the Middle East for "domestic service", illegal currency deals, arms smuggling to various factions in the Caucus republics, and from the debris of Russia into the hands of Taliban fighters in Pakistan and Afghanistan- Almaty is a key staging post in the 21st century's new silk route.

The question is phrased in that slightly concerned, slightly annoyed tone that John perfected during the last months, before …the fall. That is the term Sherlock decided was the most appropriate term. (_Yes, John, I KNOW that technically speaking, I jumped)._ But "the fall" seems to capture the experience in its entirety. The fall from public acclaim and the crash of his reputation (_I don't care about any of that, John; you were the one to whom it seemed to matter.) _ The fall from a state of grace in the biblical sense, is how Sherlock now tends to view it, with the benefit of hindsight. Like Lucifer, he chose to leave his little heaven, and toil amongst the humans of the underworld. Like Lucifer, he is damned to walk the earth alone. (_Alone, John, because friends protect people- you said it yourself; don't blame me, if for once in my life, I actually listened to you_.)

And he is no longer under any illusions- this is definitely a personal hell. But, as awful as it is, it would have been impossible if he'd had to worry about the risks it posed to John. Sherlock never cares enough about his own safety, so he can take risks that he should never put on another. (_I'm dead, John. Lost everything already. If I die, it won't matter to anyone or anything; in some respects you'll be safer if I did. By faking my death, I risked your life, and that of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. It would be better for you all if I had died. This is…selfish of me.) _

But, there are times when he cannot get that little question out of his mind, the one John had asked him numerous times in the last throes of the "game" with Moriarty. "What are you doing?"

_I'm trying to solve this problem, John, find a way to stop the whole of Moriarty's set up- his network of consultants, his insurance protection of assassins and dark angels. Only when they are all removed or wrapped up and delivered with a shiny bow to the authorities will I be able to justify what I have done- to you, to myself. Only then will it be even remotely possible to consider the idea of returning._

When the nights are long and his plans are taking too long to deliver the desired result, he talks to John, tries to explain his actions, tries to counter the arguments that he knows his friend would be throwing at him, if the conversation were taking place, if it could ever take place in the future.

_This is what I am doing, John_. It would never have been enough to kill Moriarty. A man like that, no- not a man; a spider. He'd counted on Moriarty's contingency plan when he was captured; explained it to the head of MI6. "He will have put in place a series of escalating crimes, one for every day you keep him in. At some point, the price of holding him will be too high and you will have to let him go." To her gentle query, "how do you know?" he had answered with certainty, "Because I would in his place." She had looked startled. It was her reaction to his whole idea, but she listened carefully anyway. He continued, "_everyone_ knows that he would have put this in place, that's why none of the other 31 countries are willing to risk arresting him." But, he'd convinced her to do it anyway, as the first step in his plan to bring Moriarty down.

Now, more than fifteen months later, In the middle of the night, when he got bored because he had to wait for the rest of the world to wake up so he could get on with his plans, he rehearses the conversation with John.

_I had to make him fixate on me, John; it was the only way to draw him out. He had to want to destroy me enough that his ego would bring him to the edge, so he'd make a mistake. And it worked. I didn't have to go up there with a gun; he did it to himself. He thought he'd have his revenge on me by what he left in place, but I stopped that by going through with the 'suicide'. Don't you see, John, it was the only way to win? To save you? That's what friends do, isn't it? This time, I haven't disappointed you, I hope._

He'd had this conversation hundreds of times since that afternoon at St Bart's. He hopes, someday, he might have it for real. But, only if he survives long enough to complete the campaign. And only if he decides that John has not "moved on", put his brief time with Sherlock behind him and found other people, other things that are better for him. That's what friends do, protect people. He'd protect John from the truth if it is better for him.

Before, the fall, Sherlock had not told John about the plans, for one simple reason. If he had answered John's question, "what are you doing?" It would have led to another, "_why _are you doing this?"

Sherlock is still working on his answer for that one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: **

* * *

"What are you doing now?"

It was a simple question, but if John had a pound for every time someone asked him that, he'd have been able to afford a better flat. He'd eventually left 221b- too many memories, the absence of its other occupant too conspicuous. John simply could not "move on" to use his therapist's phrase, when he was constantly confronted with the physical reminders of what he had lost. But, he couldn't afford much on his army pension and the locum work, and he had no intention of having another flatmate anytime soon.

He knew it was a reasonable question. After all, John had defined himself after returning from Afghanistan as Sherlock's flatmate, his colleague, his blogger, his friend, his best friend. Even people who had known John before now thought of him in the new context. He'd had his identity as doctor, army man and serving officer stripped away by the Afghan bullet. In its place, he'd put in a new persona. Their joint friends were almost incapable of seeing John as anything other than being joined at the hip with Sherlock. So much so that it routinely led people to the wrong conclusion.

"Why does it always bother you, John, when people talk about us being a couple?"

He'd struggled to explain it to a self-confessed sociopath, a man for whom almost all relationships were transactional. "Normal People tend to define a person by their relationships, Sherlock. It matters if people think we are lovers, as well as friends, especially when we're not. It limits my options with the opposite sex; they will think of me differently."

Sherlock had looked a little perplexed. "It doesn't stop you from getting women to date you, to sleep with you. Why should other people's views matter?" John had sighed; Sherlock's view of himself was totally self-defined, and itwas hard for John to explain his reluctance to invest every single aspect of who he was into being Sherlock's "other half".

So, John understood the logic behind the question being asked of him now. Now that Sherlock was dead, what was John doing? He wished he had a better answer. If Sherlock had asked the question, John knew what he would say. _Missing you, you big idiot. Trying to figure out why you did what you did. I thought I knew you; I thought I'd figured you out. But, in my book, you'd never have done that. Pulled off a magic trick and walked back into Baker Street a month later? Yeah, that was more your style. Laughing at all us normal mortals trying to deal with 'sentiment' while you were just above it all. And then you did something like that, killing yourself. I can't decide if it was the most monumental act of selfishness – that would be like you- or idiocy. Come to think of it, that might also be just like you, to underestimate what your own feelings might do to you, if they ever emerged long enough to attract your attention._

So, a good part of what he was doing now was having angry conversations with Sherlock. Trying to understand why. That was when he wasn't beating himself up for missing something important before the rooftop, and wondering if there was something he should have said, or done differently to keep one tall brunet, the world's only consulting detective, away from the edge of that roof. In his dreams, he confronted Moriarty at the pool, in dark alleys, in penthouse suites, even in a taxi one time, pulling out his gun and killing the bastard right then and there. Even if he'd gone to prison, it would have been worth it. He knew that from the very first night in Sherlock's company, when he'd killed Jeff Hope to save Sherlock from his own idiocy over which pill to take.

When he couldn't sleep, when the dreams were too vivid, the nightmares too distressing, his mind turned to all the conversations he wished he'd had with Sherlock, before it was too late. One of his favourites on the play list took place in the lab at St Barts, just after he had exploded, "you machine!" in response to Sherlock's callous comment about Mrs Hudson just being his 'landlady'.

In that imagined conversation, John turned back from the door, and said, _wait a minute. You're doing this on purpose. Hitting every hot button you can to get rid of me. You started it last night, when you said there was something you had to do alone, and left me standing on the street outside Kitty O'Reilly's like some …useless appendage. So, this business with Mrs Hudson- you've set it up knowing I will run to her side, and leave you alone, so….what- you can go play with Moriarty on your own? What are you doing, Sherlock? I'm not leaving here until you tell me what the hell is going on._

Hindsight was always a wonderful thing. It was the conversation he should have had, the one that would have changed things. No matter what Sherlock said, how he tried to fend him off, John would not have let go. _You've been acting strange for weeks. What are you not telling me, Sherlock? _

This is what John was doing now. Having the conversations in his head that he should have had when Sherlock was still alive.

But, when Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mike Stamford or even Harry asked that bloody question, "What are you doing now?" he just replied, "Getting on with things. How are you?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Still Talking When You're Not there**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Sherlock watched behind the mirrored observation window, as the FBI interrogator put the pressure on one of Moriarty's 'consultants'. She'd been deprived of sleep for over 50 hours, and he had just given the agent the crucial piece of information that would be needed to break her.

"Your daughter. She's, what, six? And her father is…" he consulted the file in front of him. "Your ex-husband was killed in a gang raid last November. Your parents are dead, and no siblings. So, given the prison sentence you are facing, you might be out for her graduation from high school. Of course, it will be up to the foster parents whether they let you attend…"

The woman who had steadfastly refused to answer their questions for the past week started to cry. Quietly at first, then eventually full throated sobs. The interrogator just patted her hand. "In return for information, the courts may take a different line, be more lenient, in view of your co-operation." The woman couldn't get the words out through her choking sobs, just nodded her assent.

The agent standing next to Sherlock just shook his head and started to laugh quietly. "What is it with you? Every single one of these supposedly hardened criminals, and you just know what buttons to push. Christ, we could use you in our counter-terrorism work; wouldn't need water-boarding or rendition."

People and crying. It was one of those key observational skills that made Sherlock so successful. He had been taught by his mother to understand crying as a social expression, and he knew how to use the knowledge to great effect.

Standing there now, impassively watching the woman crumble and give up information vital to the detective's campaign against Moriarty's North American network, he remembered a conversation with John.

"How do you do that?"

John asked Sherlock as the two of them strode away from the building site where the abandoned rental car had been found. Mrs Monkford had been distressed when they first approached her, trying to fend them off with the comment that she had already spoken to the police. Sherlock had taken one look at her, reached for her hand, and introduced himself as a very old friend of her husband's. With a higher pitched voice than normal and a tremor of emotion, his eyes had welled up with tears. He explained that Ian and he had grown up together and how horrible it was to have found the car with the blood. John had looked on in amazement as Sherlock proceeded to extract every piece of information he needed from her, whilst tears were running down his face. When she had explained why her husband had hired a car, due to the tax disc on his own having expired, Sherlock just said that "was Ian all over." She contradicted him, "No, it wasn't."

John had listened as Sherlock's voice suddenly dropped a full register, and he focused in on her, like some raptor descending on its prey. "Wasn't it? _Interesting_." He then turned and walked away, leaving Mrs Monkford startled and rather worried that she might have revealed a little too much.

As Sherlock handed over the business card for Janus cars to John, the shorter man asked his question. "How do you do that?"

Sherlock then explained how people who would not answer a direct question will often contradict someone who is suggesting that they have an emotional connection to the person being discussed, as if to prove they know that person better than you. "Think of it as competitive emotionalism, John. It works every time." He had gone on to explain her mistake- she used past tense when referring to her husband, being willing to describe him as dead when everyone else was just saying "missing". Suspicious behaviour indeed.

John wasn't satisfied with Sherlock's explanation. "I didn't ask you _why_ you did it. I asked _how. _I mean, how do you turn crying _on and off_ like that? I've heard actors can do that sort of thing by dredging up some past emotion to trigger tears, but surely, that would be too much _sentiment_ for you?"

In the taxi taking them to Janus Cars' garage, Sherlock tried to explain.

"Tears are a chemical by-product of crying, which is a stress reaction to pain and suffering. Babies cry because they need something, and parents are biologically programmed to respond to it. Once a person is past infancy, they are taught the socially acceptable reasons for crying. Crying releases adrenocorticotropic hormones which affect your body's response to stress- both physical and emotional, caused by social or interpersonal conflict. There are social occasions when it is called for as a way of creating emotional relationships."

"Yeah, I get the science stuff, Sherlock. But crying is what happens when people feel emotional pain and loss. You might think that people only cry as …I don't know, some kind of social communication, but, Sherlock, people cry when they are alone, when there is no one there to hear them cry. It isn't …transactional. So, how do you _fake_ it?"

He looked puzzled. "I don't _fake_ it, John. My tears are biochemical by-products, just like anyone else's."

John had just sighed, frustrated that Sherlock was being obtuse, or purposefully evading the question. He'd let the question lie there between them, unanswered.

Now in the absence of John, he wished he'd been more honest. Sometimes, he imagined the conversation that he hoped one day he might be able to have, when and if it was safe enough to return to London. At some point, John would ask it. _So, when you were on the rooftop talking to me on the phone, were those _real_ tears, or were you just faking it? Was it all an act, Sherlock, part of the plot, your plan to fool everyone, me included?_

John would believe he had been manipulated, as shamelessly as Sherlock had used the tears to get what he wanted from Mrs Monkford. It would be part of the reason why he would not forgive Sherlock.

Six months after the fall, Sherlock knew how he'd answer the question when it came- truthfully. _John, I cried as an eleven year old child would when my mother died. But I cried all day and all night for weeks, until my father put me away in an institution because I could not control my grief. There I was given drugs and electro-convulsive therapy to stop my crying. Seven months of that worked and when I got out, I didn't cry anymore by choice, not even when I was alone. _

_When I needed to use tears as a way of getting evidence on the Monkford case, all I had to do was remember that loss. Did I use that memory to 'fool' you into thinking I was taking my own life? I didn't need to, John. For the first time in my life since my mother died, I was facing the loss of everything I valued. The Work, my home, my city, the people I cared about, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Most of all, going through with it meant I would lose you. By doing so, I would save your life, but it would be at the cost of our friendship. _

_Now I cry when I am alone, because I am alone. Alone is what I have now, but that's acceptable, because my being alone protects…you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Still Talking When You're Not There ****Chapter Four**

* * *

I'm an English male. I've been a serving army officer in a war zone. I'm a doctor. If those three facts don't tell you something about the likelihood of seeing me cry, I don't know what will.

That doesn't mean I haven't had more than my fair share of grief. In my family, acquaintance with death came early. I lost my grandparents in my teens, my mother while I was at medical school and my father while I was on my first tour of duty. I had to be the strong brother to my weak sister, and help her deal with the recriminations and grief, offering comfort where I could in the hope of keeping her away from alcohol. As a doctor in combat, I've seen good friends and colleagues killed, and as a trauma surgeon, I've had too many of my patients die on the table with my hands still in them, or even worse, never even make it to surgery.

All of those roles mean I've seen a lot of people crying in front of me, and each of those roles requires me to respond to their needs first. A lecturer in my second year of medical training explained it, when trying to cover that most difficult of subjects- when a doctor has to tell a patient that they are dying, and then the patient's family that their loved one was dying.

"Crying is a way of letting defences down, of admitting to emotional and physical pain. You need to let them do it; it's a coping mechanism for loss and grief. You have to respect their willingness to let themselves appear weak and distressed. It's a human call for help and comfort, and that's what you need to give them."

No one wants the head of the family, the army captain, the doctor to be weak and tearful in reply. Just does not compute. Every time I felt like doing it, I had to stop myself and let a bit of scar tissue develop around that particular wound. Eventually, as a doctor you learn not to invest so much of yourself in a patient. In a warzone, friendships can be intense, but you all know that it could end with an IED, so you learn not to give _too_ much. Even in what's left of my family, I let a distance grow between Harry and me, so it didn't crush me every time she relapses. Over time all that builds up to become what my therapist eventually labelled as "trust issues".

Even at the height of my depression after I was invalided out of the service, out of my career as a surgeon, out of the friendships I had allowed, I never let myself appear pathetic in public. If I cried, well, it was between me and my sheets or the bedsit walls.

And then Sherlock came along, and changed my life forever. We were surrounded by murder, crime and the emotional trauma that comes from both, but for the most part I didn't have time to think about loss. Watching him pretend to be 'normal', slipping on the emotions as if they were one of his disguises, even to the extent of faking tears to get something out of a suspect- well, it was manipulation that somehow made the sociopath label plausible. Sometimes I berated him for his lack of emotion, empathy or compassion. Unlike him, I couldn't check those at the door of Baker Street, and sometimes in private, we'd argue about it.

But we made our peace, Sherlock and me. Mycroft was right; with Sherlock I walked the battlefields of London, and found my equilibrium again, to be strong when others needed me to be so. I did worry that someday I might have to deal with Sherlock being killed by some stupid criminal, or an accident when he pushed his luck too far, and then, latterly, when a psychopath threatened to 'burn the heart out of him'. With Sherlock, risking his life to prove he was clever was an occupational hazard, so I got used to thinking through how I would react to his running out of luck one day.

None of that helped, when it came to dealing with Sherlock's suicide. Taking his own life? No, that wasn't even remotely possible. For the first week, I was in too much shock to even consider crying. I just couldn't believe it. Quite simply, I had seen what I had seen- those open, dead blue eyes, the blood on the pavement. I'd seem him jump; I'd felt for the missing pulse. I _knew_ he was dead, yet I still expected him to come bounding into Baker Street, spouting about how he'd faked his own death, and laughing at everyone's sentiment. The fake death thing? It wasn't like we didn't have prior experience, was it? Ian Monkford's effort with Janus Cars to fake his own murder and escape to South America started the scenario; Irene Adler's appearance on a Barts' slab and then her resurrection gave us yet another example. So, for a while, I kept hoping.

I know the stages of bereavement as well as any doctor- been there, done that, have taught it to my colleagues. I just didn't expect denial to be something I experienced, because, not to put too fine a point on it, I'd never done that before in the face of all the other deaths that I had borne stoically.

It was sitting across from my therapist Ella that I moved on from denial. She forced me say it, and for the longest time, I couldn't do it. Kept trying to form the words, but I couldn't without risking a complete breakdown. I did cry then a little, but didn't lose it completely. Wasn't my finest hour, nor hers. Not a thing she could do or say could provide even a shred of comfort. I wondered if all those people I'd tried to help when they cried thought the same thing about me- totally useless. I didn't return to her again.

When I realised he wasn't coming back, then I went on to anger. I paced around Baker Street glaring at his possessions. I smashed the skull one night. I'd been broken by Sherlock's death, so I broke the skull. Neither of us was needed anymore.

Kept having pissed off conversations in my head: _Sherlock, how can you be such a bloody selfish idiot? You might not understand emotion, but you've inflicted pain, real pain on those who did care about you. I __know__ it's not an advantage, you moron! Tell me about it! I'm trying to deal with the aftermath of your completely senseless act. If you were in such pain, all you had to do was say something, tell me what you were feeling, even cry- I would have been there for you. But you never did, not until it was too late and you were on the roof and ready to jump, no matter what I said or did. You made me listen to you cry. Did you fake that, too, as a way of making me pay for my failings as a friend? What other excuse can I give you- YOU MADE ME WATCH YOU DIE. Or maybe I'm giving you too much credit. You probably didn't even care what I thought, because you didn't know how to care about anything or anyone. You really are a heartless machine. You were my bloody lifeline, and you never even thought of what your emotional ineptitude would do to me._

Eventually the anger just burned out of me, to be replaced by…questions. I just sat in my chair at Baker Street and looked at the empty chrome and leather chair and wondered, why? Was it something I'd done? Something I hadn't done? It's bargaining- trying to figure out how I could have saved you, and therefore myself. I drove myself crazy a bit, and it was what pushed me into leaving Baker Street for my own flat.

I'm in the depression stage now. Don't go out much, only talk to people enough to keep them thinking I'm OK. To all intents and purposes, the outside world thinks I have accepted the situation and am moving on. It's a lie, something I've learned to do over the years. I'm not sure that any scar tissue can form over a wound this deep. It hurts on too many levels. And as long as I can keep up appearances, though, they leave me alone.

But, in the confines of the four walls of my new bedsit, where no one needs me to be a head of family, an army captain, a doctor, or even a best friend anymore, I cry for both of us.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: **

* * *

Agent Griffin kept his eye on the tall lanky blond as he stepped off the pavement and dodged around the parked car, some fifty meters ahead. He knew that the taller man was running on pure adrenaline as he put the final pieces together tonight. Earlier in the day, Griffin had watched the man he knew as Lars Sigurson come out of the bank in Lucerne, and start the process of destroying the Moriarty network in Switzerland. Lars was quietly but ruthlessly taking apart every piece of the Consulting Criminal's legacy that he could get his hands on. By setting the local network members in the five major cities of Switzerland against one another, he had lit the fuse that would blow up the network's main money laundering hub, seriously weakening operations in the rest of the world.

Fluent in twelve languages and trained to the highest standards available in martial arts, Griffin had been hand-picked by Mycroft Holmes for the role. A former Special Ops man, then member of the Royal Protection Group, he'd followed princes into armed combat zones and kept them alive under enemy gunfire.

"No one knows you are working for me- not Five, Six; not even my own people. This is …personal. The hardest job in the British Security Services, Mr Griffin, keeping an eye on this man. He will not thank you for it; he probably won't even acknowledge your presence for weeks. Don't approach him unless he asks for it. Even then, don't expect him to talk to you, or to answer any question you might have. Watch, observe, report back to me. And if he needs protection or back up, give it. No matter what he says or does. You are there to keep him alive."

Babysitting a double agent might not have been thought of as an astute career move, but after three months of trying to keep pace with Sigurson, Griffin now knew he'd learned more in that time than he had in the previous ten years of work. This man used his brain the way normal people used their fists or a gun. And his was just as much a battlefield as Afghanistan had been- worse, actually.

After three months shadowing duty, taking him from Minsk, to Kiev and then onto Budapest, they were now in Switzerland. His daily reports to Holmes back in London were becoming increasingly concerned. "I know you said he wouldn't talk to me. But, sir, he doesn't talk to anyone now. It's …worrying. Occasionally when he is in role- acting the part to get on the inside and figure out what is going on. But even that is kept to the bare minimum- maybe a half dozen sentences every third or fourth day. He prefers to break and enter the premise at night, gut their IT systems for what he is looking for, and then he locks himself in a hotel room, working alone. Then, when he comes out, all hell breaks loose in the network and suddenly we're in the middle of a gang war."

The aristocratic British voice at the end of the phone them asked him, "and are you keeping him away from the gunfire of that gang war, Agent Griffin?" A question mildly asked, but with the full knowledge that giving an answer Holmes didn't want to hear could cost him his career, Griffin replied, "as best I can, sir. He knows I am here. Doesn't acknowledge me, but doesn't go out of his way to avoid me, either."

That calm voice in London sighed. "Then keep your distance, unless you think he is unwell or in need of assistance. I trust you to use your discretion. Just don't let him out of your sight. He is too important an asset, as I am sure you now appreciate."

0oOo

_I'm losing the sound of your voice, John. How can that be possible? I thought I had you safely stored in my Mind Palace, proof against whatever Moriarty's dregs could throw against me. But two years on, and I am losing it. I know what you'd say, when we have our little chats, but, I am beginning to wonder if I am just imagining too much, rather than remembering. _

Late at night, when he had to take a break from the work, Sherlock found himself longing for a violin, with a craving just as strong as his addiction days. But, he had to travel light and not attract attention, so it wasn't an option. After days of computer work, the occasional text or abrupt telephone conversation with a criminal on a burn phone, the only solace left to him was talking in his mind with John, explaining to him the most recent case and how it had unfolded.

"Sorry, John. This one in Locarno is boring. Not worthy of a post on that blog of yours. Nothing particularly unusual, just a load of criminals getting greedy and shoving money around the world. That last bit's been complicated, but once the brainwork was done, ultimately tedious. The only interesting thing has been figuring out who the dark angels are- accountants, lawyers, a senior civil servant in the Bank of International Settlements in Basel, that crooked judge in the canton. Digging out the dirt on them has been more challenging, if only to see if their cooperation is being coerced or bought. The former can be salvaged, if set free from the network, the latter need to be brought to justice. It changes what evidence I send off to the powers that be."

_Sherlock, does that mean you are playing judge, jury and executioner? Is that right?_ He could hear the moral indignation in his flatmate's tone.

"It's efficient, John. And that's why I can do this when no country's security services would dare. Too much due process needed when you take a government wage. It can all be left at the doorstep of one of Moriarty's own consultants, this Norwegian fellow called Lars Sigurson. Great disguise. Only trouble is that Lars leads a rather boring life."

oOo

Boring is not an adjective that Agent Griffin would have applied to the life of the man he was supposed to be protecting. Particularly, not tonight. As Lars walked down the street lined with Locarno's most expensive designer stores, Griffin was keeping his eye on the tall man following him. The unknown stalker was good at it, almost as good as the agent was- blending in with the passing pedestrians, commuters going home, or late night shoppers. The pavements were crowded enough to give the man enough cover. He couldn't be sure whether Lars was aware of being followed, or whether because he expected Griffin to be there, he might be mistaking this chap for him. It was worrying.

The agent was not surprised at the walk-about; it was something that Lars was prone to doing. Most nights it would be very late indeed, or to put it another way, very early. When the streets were at their most empty, the tall blond would stride out. His path did not seem pre-decided; sometimes he would double-back to investigate some bit of architecture that caught his eye. One thing Griffin had noticed was that the Norwegian had an uncanny ability to spot (and avoid) a CCTV camera. They were much less common on the continent than they were in Britain, but this man knew a lot about camera angles, too. Even if he had to pass under one, he knew just how to hold his head and shoulders to obscure facial images that could be recognised. Griffin had learned a lot about him just from something as basic as shadowing.

The stalker twenty metres in front of him stopped, looking startled and breaking his cover as a normal pedestrian. Griffin realised that Lars had vanished. Based on his previous experience of following the Norwegian, Griffin assumed that he had entered one of the brightly lit shops, whilst screened by a crowd of evening pedestrians. The same conclusion must have occurred to the shadow, who turned around and headed back in the direction of Griffin. For a moment, the British agent got a good look at his face, before he ducked into the Globus department store. He looked vaguely familiar, but Griffin couldn't place the man.

He knew Lars's choice was a good place to throw a tracker off his scent. The department store would be crowded and there would be other entrances and exits, different areas and additional floors, all of which provided a safe vantage point to see who was following him. He also guessed that Lars would head for an alley exit, possibly a goods delivery door, so he could avoid being seen exiting by anyone else. Trackers tended to work in teams, but Griffin had not spotted any others on the street yet, despite looking for them. Rather than enter the store himself, he headed straight for the delivery bay around the back.

Unfortunately, his first attempt didn't work, as he discovered once he got around the corner. The store joined directly onto the next building, so Griffin had to backtrack and then head all the way around the other side. By the time he reached the alley, he could see that it was dimly lit and there were no vans in sight as the delivery business was over for the day. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw two men about twenty metres away. They were fighting. As he broke into a run, he shouted, hoping that the distraction might make the attacker hesitate. He also pulled his gun from the holster under his arm.

There was a glint of silver in the attacker's hand, picked out of the gloom by the small light over the goods entrance. Undeterred, Lars moved in and grappled with his attacker. He slapped the man's left ear very hard, and then took advantage of the man's startled reaction to the unorthodox move. A swift duck under the slashing knife and then Lars was behind his assailant, with the man caught in a head-lock.

As Griffin came up to the two, there was the sound of a gunshot, and then the ping of a ricochet, with stone chips flying off the wall behind Lars. Griffin turned to scan for the gunman, and realised that the two of them were seriously exposed. A one-way street with only one exit, and that was where the gunfire had come from.

He heard Lars mutter behind him. "I don't have time for this." There was a crunching sound, and Griffin caught the sight of the assailant slumping to the ground. He watched as the Norwegian took cover behind one of the large plastic rubbish bins. He joined him as another gunshot rang out.

"Isn't the delivery door open; can't we just backtrack?"

"Not from this direction. He shut it behind him when he followed me out, knowing he had back-up. No external lock, so not pickable. We'll have to do this hard way." The sentences were delivered with just the slightest trace of a Scandinavian accent, and the tell-tale absence of indefinite articles.

"Who was he?" Griffin nodded his head toward the crumpled figure on the steps.

"Not past-tense. He has broken cartilage in his neck but he should live, if the person shooting at us misses him. His name is Luigi Baldassari."

"Brother of Reggio, your Lucarno target."

Two more shots were fired. Griffin watched as Lars scanned the windows of the building opposite. The grey green eyes were calm. _This guy must have ice water in his veins._

Peering out around the bin, he couldn't see anyone.

"Look up."

_Oh_. On the rooftop opposite the department store, Griffin could see a figure crouched, scanning the alleyway. When he looked back at Lars, he was surprised to see the man's eyes closed. He was muttering something. It took him a moment, but the agent heard the Norwegian say, in a rather English accented mumble, "I know, John; stupid, but unavoidable."

"Who's John?"

That roused the blond man, who looked annoyed. "Just do as I say," delivered with Nordic certainty that would put a Viking to shame. Gesturing to the gunman, "He doesn't know you are armed. At this distance, you can't hit him, but you can scare him into taking cover. So, when I say go, provide covering fire while I cross the alleyway to the window three metres to the right of where we are now."

Griffin looked puzzled. "What's special about that window?"

"It's broken, and therefore will give way when I throw myself through it. Once inside, I will disarm him. I'll give you the all clear when it's safe to leave."

"With respect, sir, that's not how it's going to play out. I'm here to protect you, not the other way around. If anyone tries to take the gunman on, it's going to be me, as I am armed."

"That's where you are wrong, Mr British Agent." Without another word, he just stood up and ran out from behind the bin. Griffin stood up to fire at the man on the roof, knowing that if he didn't, the blond man wouldn't stand a chance.

It played out exactly as the Norwegian said it would. The tall lanky man sprinted across the alley and threw himself straight through the window he had picked out. There was no chance of following him, as the gunman on the roof decided to keep him pinned down behind the bins with a withering fire. Automatic rifle versus handgun was too uneven a balance to try moving, but his imperative to keep the double agent alive was pushing him to the point of risking it.

He reloaded and fired four quick shots at the rooftop gunman, but Griffin realised that he must have moved, because his return fire did not come in reply to the British agent's. That worried him intensely, but then he heard the sound of a rifle hitting the alley way ground in a clatter. He cautiously stood and saw Lars wave once from the roof, and then he vanished. Griffin checked the man slumped by the delivery door. Pulse was steady, but he was clearly out for the count. That's when he saw the knife and picked it up. It was wet with blood. _Damn. I didn't spot that he was wounded._ He hurried across the alley, picking up the rifle on the way. He found the unconscious gunman on the steps leading down from the roof. He put a call into London- someone local needed to clean this up. He had other duties to see to- and quickly.

oOo

Back at the hotel, he didn't hesitate, but walked straight up and knocked on Lars' door. He figured that if they'd shared a rubbish bin for cover from a sniper, the Norwegian would at least acknowledge his existence. There was no reply, even to the second discrete knock. Worried, he tried the door handle. Locked. Annoyed, he squatted down and picked it in twenty seconds, and then walked in.

Lars didn't even look up. He was in the bathroom with his shirt off, but the door open so he could clearly see the hotel room door in the mirror. And as soon as he locked on those strange grey green eyes glaring at him, Griffin glanced down and saw the blood on his right arm, which was being washed down into the basin.

_So, how do I handle this one?_ Griffin decided English humour might work. "Generally speaking, doing one's own suturing tends to leave a rather messy scar. Might I be of some assistance?"

The Norwegian didn't reply. He pulled his forearm out of the tap's flow, and used the hotel towel to briefly dry the area. He picked up a gauze dressing and pressed down, applying firm pressure. Griffin knew from personal experience that this would hurt like hell, but the blond man's expression did not alter. He came out of the room, sat on the bed, and then nodded his head at the needle laid out on the plastic wrapper, already threaded. Griffin obliged, examining the wound as he removed the dressing. It wasn't too deep, but it was bleeding quite freely. Calling on his own first aid training, Griffin swabbed the area with the betadine from the field kit and started to stitch, somewhat startled by the man's stillness despite the pain he must be feeling.

When he finished, he cleaned the area again, and then bandaged it. The entire operation took less than ten minutes. As soon as he tied off the gauze strip, the blond was off the bed and shrugging his shirt on over the bandages. He then sat in the one chair in the room at the tiny table. Opening his laptop, he began to type, totally ignoring the British agent who was still sitting on the bed. Despite the bandage, his right hand was almost as quick as his left in terms of the keyboard.

"Um, Mr Sigurson, given your injury, you really need to eat something, drink fluids and get some rest."

That earned him a look. "What's your name?"

"Griffin, but if we're going to be shot at together, then you'd better call me by my first name, which is Albert."

For some reason, that name brought the faintest of wistful smiles to the man's face. "I once knew someone called Albert. Didn't talk much, but he was very clever…. I hope the same can be said of you."

* * *

**Author's note:** If you don't understand why Sherlock would smile at the name Albert, read Chapter 24 of my story, Ex Files.


	6. Chapter 6

**Still Talking When You're Not There Chapter Six**

* * *

John walked down the aisle of the supermarket, the wire basket clutched in his right hand. Didn't need a trolley these days; only shopping for one. It still took some getting used to. Lord knows, Sherlock didn't seem to eat that much, and what he did had to be cajoled into him. But, it was surprising how much waste there was now. A lot of food went off before he could get around to eating it.

He could hear Sherlock's reasoning, echoing around his head every time he went shopping. (_The supermarkets pre-pack excess, John. It's all about profits. You can't buy exactly what quantities you need anymore. They call it 'convenience' packaging, but it's calculated to make you spend more.) _ It was a strange sensation, all these months later, to be hearing that baritone voice in his head, especially since he could count on the fingers of one hand the times they'd ever actually been food shopping together.

But, he understood Sherlock's point now. One portion packs were more expensive per gram than the two serving sized versions. And the family sized packages cheaper still. Feeding himself these days was almost as expensive as it had been for the two of them at Baker Street. Still, there were some advantages. He looked in his basket at the single pint of milk. It would last him exactly two days. No point in buying a quart; it would go off before he could finish it. No more opportunities for Sherlock's repeated statement of the obvious- _We're out of milk again, John_, as if he hadn't noticed.

He was in the aisle with jams, chutneys, mustards and so on. A bottle of ketchup now lasted months, whereas before it might make only three weeks. Sherlock liked the combination of sugar, salt, vinegar and tomato. (_It's an explosion of contrasts, makes most boring food marginally more interesting.)_

He stopped at the jams, searching the shelves for his favourite: Bonne Maman's strawberry preserve. He never varied- it had to be this brand or nothing. One of the reasons he bought it now was because it always brought back a memory- of Sherlock in his suit, standing at the fridge with the jam jar in one hand and a spoon, just shovelling in mouthful after mouthful. They were about to go out on a case, and at the time he'd thought that Sherlock was stocking up on the sugar, knowing that it might be days before he'd deign to eat again.

It was only later, when the case had been solved so quickly that John didn't even have time to say goodbye to Lestrade before they were off back to Baker Street, in fact _much_ later that night, when John figured out why Sherlock had a craving for sugar.

They'd come home in a taxi, and John remembered catching the first hint of tobacco smoke for almost two months. That led to him accusing his flatmate of smoking a cigarette on the sly at the crime scene.

"So, Sherlock, you solved this without really needing me to even look at those three severed arms with the odd tattoos. You just wanted to keep me busy so you could sneak off, didn't you_?"_

It was the start of realising that whatever rules had been agreed before, Sherlock was not going to play by them now. "If Mycroft can cheat, and not tell us the truth, if he can expose you to that CIA man putting a gun to your head, why should we abide by his rules."

The doctor in him pointed out that someone recovering from pneumonia shouldn't be smoking; it had nothing to do with Mycroft.

There'd been no reply. Sherlock was off in his Mind Palace again, where he had been spending a lot of time since the incident in Irene Adler's bedroom in Belgravia.

The memory of their argument later that night still resonated in his head as he joined the queue at the check-out line. He'd never been able to use the self-service tills since his 'row with a chip and pin machine' and the embarrassment of having to confess it to his flatmate. Now, he had time to kill so he stood in line, patiently waiting his turn and remembered the night of their argument.

The smoking had just made John seethe, all the way home in the taxi. Sherlock _promised_, and here he was breaking the rules. What else was he doing? If John couldn't trust him to fulfil his promise on smoking, then what else might he be getting up to behind his back?

As soon as they got home, he'd cooked a meal in silence and delivered it to where Sherlock was sitting working on his laptop. When the brunet looked up at John, the doctor had just glared at him, as if daring him to break this promise, too. When Sherlock sighed, closed the laptop, took the plate from him and started to eat, that's when John realised that something more serious was at issue. _If he's being obedient on this, it's probably to throw me off the scent of something far worse that he's doing. _

When John went to bed that night, he suddenly went pale. _No, please, not that!_ He recalled how Sherlock's face had been flushed, and his sudden craving for sugar that afternoon. He fished under his bed for the sports kit, and rummaged in the bottom for his rugby shoes. The right one had a bottle stuffed in the sock. A quick squint at the volume in line with the tiny dash made by the blue marker pen - _whew, it's still the same._ He looked down at the bottle, in a mixture of relief and regret at his lack of trust. The codeine linctus had been necessary to help Sherlock get over the cough and sleep, but he knew the dangers of having a prescription opiate in the house with an addict. He hadn't got rid of it before, just in case the cough returned in the first few days, but if he was able to smoke again, then John should ditch it now.

He went downstairs and into the bathroom, so he could pour it down the sink. That's when he looked at it again in the brighter light. He marched into the living room, where Sherlock was now stretched out on the sofa. "Sherlock, A doctor knows volumes and dosages. Three doses of 15 ml, one per night. There should be more in here, about 30ml more_._" He was livid and he didn't care if his flatmate knew it. "You took the trouble to move the marker line. Shame you couldn't change my ability to measure dosages."

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, looking at John with an unreadable expression. Then he stood, took the bottle out of John's hands, and walked into the kitchen, unscrewing the top as he went. He ran the tap and poured the contents down the plughole.

"You should have disposed of it, John."

"I know, Sherlock, but really? Codeine? _WHY?"_

"There are some things worse than cigarette smoke."

"I know that, too, but that doesn't answer my question- why?"

"Because I need to think. Mycroft is hiding something important. He's broken the terms of our negotiated agreement- we were supposed to _share_. Something has happened and he won't tell me what it is. That's _dangerous_ with Moriarty out there. Dangerous to _you_. Need I remind you f the CIA gun to your head? When I close my eyes that's all I can see. In the meantime, just when I really need to focus, you've emptied the flat of caffeine, you ration the nicotine patches and won't let me smoke. The alternative to a perfectly reasonable dose of codeine would involve going out to buy cocaine, which for obvious reasons, I think would be …a bit not good. So, just think of it as the lesser of many evils."

John had just sighed and looked away in disappointment. He remembered asking Sherlock whether the results were worth it. Sherlock had frowned and said he needed more data before he could answer the question.

He started putting his groceries onto the belt_. If only I'd known then what was going to happen. I wonder if the whole downward spiral started right there that night, the path that ended up on the Bart's roof._

A wave of sadness came over him. Strange that the pain of loss wasn't going away, despite the passage of time. Too many what ifs to ponder. _What if I had just had it out with him then and there, got him to talk to me about Irene Adler, and about Moriarty, convinced him to keep me in the loop? _Instead, John's censure lay like a heavy cloud over Baker Street for the next week. Sherlock just retreated back into silence. And that was the week when Adler started Round Two, without John being made aware of what was going on.

"Excuse me? That will be £7.20, please. Do you need help with the packing?" John sighed and looked at the checkout girl. "No thanks, I can manage on my own."

* * *

**Author's note**: If you aren't following my story **Crossfire** or **Got My Eye on You, ** then you might want to because they both cover aspects that relate to this story.


	7. Chapter 7

**Still Talking When You're Not There- Chapter Seven **

* * *

The first time someone died, it was an accident. _Honestly, John. I had no intention; the first one just…happened; a by-product, an unintended consequence, unplanned._ He'd been letting himself into the old office block in the financial district of Moscow each night for the past week, using the time between one and three am to ransack the hard disks of each of the PCs in the room. The software said Microsoft, but it was one of the pirated copies so prevalent in the Russian Federation; even came in plastic shrink wrapped boxes looking like they were straight off the plane from Seattle. No way was he going to risk a USB transferring this virus-ridden crap onto his laptop.

He'd cased the place originally by posing as Lars Sigurson, Moriarty's Norwegian consultant. It was a name known to the Moscovite office. He'd worked hard at establishing the cover story even before he left London. His blond hair and grey green eyes were convincing enough when matched with a Scandinavian-accented Russian. He had talked his way into a meeting with the Moscow office head, claiming that he was working on a money laundering scam that needed cooperation with the Russian bank owned by the Moscow dark angels. It was enough to get him into the office for a good look around. He had promised to return with the money in ten days' time.

In the meantime, he had to break in to do his work _in situ_, in the middle of the night when he wouldn't be disturbed. That was the theory anyway. The plan was simple- gut the computers for the details of the network in Moscow, in particular, the dark angels who were keeping them safe from the prying eyes of the few authorities who actually were trying to hold back the tide of organised crime.

Whatever he'd experienced in America, working with the FBI and the CIA had not prepared him for the sheer scale of Moriarty's network in Russia. It was virtually a clandestine government in its own right, sometimes competing but often collaborating with the country's local authorities to siphon millions of roubles out of the legal economy. Whereas in the USA it was a case of tracking down the odd villain in a key position- be it a bank, public office, or company- in Russia, the network actually owned its own banks, city halls and corporations, employing thousands of people.

That made setting up the cascade of in-fighting harder, just because of the sheer scale of things. But, there was one advantage of working in the Russian Federation- it was relatively easy to provoke one faction into fighting another. When you have your own private armies, bloodshed is much more the resort of first choice, rather than last.

That's why he was now hiding inside a filing room, waiting for the security guard to clear the floor- so he could plant the key piece of evidence that would set Moscow's network at the throat of St Petersburg's fiefdom. The traditional enmity between the cities was mirrored in the network; it would not take much for one side to believe the worst of the other- and start shooting.

The armed guard was old enough to have been born in the Soviet era. His plodding passage through the floor could be detected from the squeak of his rubber soled boots. Every night for the past six, he'd made his rounds every two hours, giving Sherlock all the time he needed. And he made so much noise coming up the stairs that he could always get out of the way in plenty of time. Downstairs, three more guards with guns watched CCTV cameras on the stairwells, lift lobbies, the back and front entrances. Sherlock had copied the digital feeds and was looping them through the circuits, so the screens would not show him entering by the roof and getting into this office.

As the double doors at the far end of the office closed behind the guard, Sherlock was already in motion. He settled back into place and re-opened the file. He referred to his sheet of paper, being careful to type the sub-routine into the email that would plant the virus which would be detected by the next morning's security scan. It was tailor-made; a Trojan horse programme that would open the door to file theft, and it had St Petersburg's characteristic coding. Once found, the Moscovites would retaliate, and then the series of embedded files would kick into action in both St Petersburg and Moscow. He estimated it would take a week at most before guns were used instead of keystrokes.

_(It's easier this way, John. In America, everything took FOREVER because it all had to be 'by the book' and lead to successful prosecutions. I used to think the British security services were constrained, but in the US, the criminals use the legal system to stymie law enforcement so well that the FBI and CIA are obsessed with due process. Thank God for the lawlessness of the Russians- I can wrap this up in a matter of a month. That will mean the two biggest operations are down- only thirty more to go before I can become un-dead and think of returning to you.)_

Perhaps because he was having one of his internal conversations with John, or maybe it was just that he had not slept properly for the six nights when he was at this work- whatever the reason, he did not hear the arrival of the intruder.

One moment he was closing down a programming string, the next he was pulled right out of his chair, by a man whose arm was across his neck, his right hand with a knife pressing it against Sherlock's throat. There was a loud shout- остановитесь - злоумышленник!* – almost certain to recall the armed security guard.

The Bartitsu manoeuver he used to dislodge the offending arm did nothing to stop the point of the knife dragging across the side of his neck, but it did mean that the burly Russian was now at the mercy of the younger man he had just attacked, caught in a headlock with Sherlock's right hand across his mouth to stop a half stifled shout.

He dragged his attacker back into the filing room, where he had hidden earlier from the security guard. His stranglehold against the man's windpipe was having an effect, and his struggles grew weaker. He pushed the door with a foot, but it did not quite catch. He felt something wet and warm on his neck, as the knife clattered to the ground, from the man's numb fingers. As the man sagged and he let the winded assailant slump to the floor, Sherlock heard a call from the guard, "_Alexi?" _at the doorway into the office he'd just vacated

Sherlock faced a conundrum- the first assailant would recover consciousness if left untended. But, the security guard would soon investigate the filing room- which had no other exit. He was bottled up, caught like a rat in a trap. He sighed.

He picked up the knife, pulled the winded man to his feet, and grabbed him in the same lock-hold as before. He knew that Russians had the same macho tendency as Americans to shoot first and ask questions later. So, he used the first man as a shield and pushed him in front, through the door, and almost into the back of the security guard, who was bent over the computer screen trying to figure out what was going on. He whirled around as Sherlock put the knife to his assailant's throat, and said quietly, "подавите оружие". But the guard did not put his gun down, growling "Вы подавляете нож".

To break the deadlock, Sherlock began to move slowly towards the door, keeping his hostage between him and the gun. Somewhere along the way, he realised that his hostage had stopped resisting. In fact, he'd stopped breathing. Staggering slightly under the weight of a now dead body, Sherlock reached the door. The security guard kept his gun up as he fumbled at his belt for the radio that would connect him to the front desk and help. Sherlock couldn't risk that call being made. He shoved the body at the guard, and attacked. The gun went off, but the body that took the bullet was already dead. Sherlock did not hesitate- he had no choice if he wanted to get out alive before the rest of the office's security arrived. So, he slashed the knife across the neck of the guard, severing both carotid arteries. He'd be dead before the others could reach him, and would not be able to identify him.

He pushed his piece of paper into the pocket of the shot man, and put the knife in the hand of the man who had attacked him - it might confuse the first people on the scene; let them think it was a disagreement.

He calmly walked over to the computer, finished typing his code and shut the system down. Righting the chair, he then walked to the far door of the office and slipped through the double doors. He could hear the other guards arriving on the scene behind him as he ran up the stairs to the roof, where he had gained access and would now make his escape.

oOo

Now back in the relatively safe confines of the third class tourist hotel in a seedy area of Moscow's suburbs, Sherlock was trying to clean the knife wound across the side of his neck. Superficial, but still bleeding a lot. He'd used bottled water to irrigate the wound. He fished in the first aid kit for an antiseptic wipe to clean the area around the wound, then opened the special bandage. He'd got a dozen of these off the Americans- used a special chitosan compound to stop bleeding fast. It was still a military patent, but he knew that he could not risk a doctor or hospital visit. (_You'd approve, John, used in Afghanistan first and now coming on stream for normal consumers- one of the few good things to emerge from all those battlefield wounds.)_

It had been a close call. (_The first one was an accident; I didn't mean to choke off his oxygen supply to the point where he actually died. It was inconvenient; I wanted him to be able to walk out with me at least as far as the stairs, where I planned to dump him unconscious. But, with hindsight, it worked better this way.)_

"_And just how could you think that killing someone was __better__ than leaving him alive?" _ John's attitude toward killing was …perplexing. On the one hand, the ex-army doctor had shot Jeff Hope through the heart for trying to tempt Sherlock to take a poison pill. On the other hand, his flatmate's medical instincts were to save every patient, irrespective of whether they were a murder suspect or a best friend. Sherlock had summed it up to Lestrade on that first night, even before he knew it was John who had pulled the trigger. "Acclimatised to violence, he didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle." Somehow, on John, the contradictions didn't seem a problem. He wondered if John would be so forgiving of Sherlock's version. Probably not.

_(But, it will actually work to convince the Moscovites. I planted the cypher code sheet in his pocket- it will look like the guard interrupted a St Petersburg mole, they fought and killed each other. This way the two hubs of Moriarty's network will be at each other's throats faster. A good result, John, really.) _

The only surprise of the evening, really, is that this is the first time that Sherlock has ever actually killed two men, even in self-defence. Apart from the very few times he 'borrowed' John's weapon, he wasn't armed with a gun in the UK unless he took it off a criminal- and even then, Lestrade had made it clear that there would be 'issues' arising from shooting someone, even in self-defence. Knife wounds (_Always in self-defence John, you know I don't carry the knife; I use it to pin the bills to the mantelpiece, or the Cluedo board to the wall_), beatings, sometimes a criminal ended up dead from a chase, but he'd never used a weapon to kill a man, nor had he ever throttled a person to death.

What surprised him is that he felt no different. It was just a process, done without emotion and without any particular personal animosity. He felt no regret. He found that he was more curious than anything. He'd have liked to examine the bodies of the two men at leisure, perhaps in a morgue, to see the actual extent of the damage done, and how it had been inflicted.

The only other thought that occurred to him was that he was sure John would be disappointed in his reaction to the deaths.

oOo

The next time it happened, it was with malice of forethought, premeditated, pure and simple murder. He felt no compunction at all. The man in question was Boris Yerinilko. He was a big man, more a weightlifter in physique than what you might expect from an assassin. Sherlock had recognised him from Baker Street; he was the "workman" hired by Mrs Hudson to do some the minor repairs. Simple, of course, and with all the hallmarks of Moriarty's warped sense of humour. Keep an eye on her, to be able to deliver the threat-one of the "three bullets, three gunmen; three victims" that Moriarty used to incentivise Sherlock to jump.

Sherlock took his time- four days and three nights of stalking in Yekaterinberg. Before he left Moscow, he'd managed to pick up an old, but well cared for Makarov pistol and ammunition, so common in Russia that it would be almost impossible to trace. The serial number had been removed, probably decades before.

He did the deed in one of the side streets. The man was walking alone, it was late and he was a little drunk, so not paying a great deal of attention. The weather had turned very cold; winter was coming early to the Urals, so there were few pedestrians on the street. Dressed like any sensible local in a great coat and furry hat, walking with his collar turned up against the wind, Sherlock simply came out of a building doorway, walking towards Boris. When they were about to pass one another, he stopped, and said quietly in English, "Good Evening." In surprise, Boris looked up at him, and then in the split second when he recognised Sherlock, the tall brunet closed the gap between them and shot him in the heart.

(_I know, John. You wouldn't approve. You didn't object when I threw Nielsen out of the window at Baker Street the first time, but I do recall you weren't happy by the time I defenestrated him the fourth time. Tough man- took a lot to break a few bones to make up for hurting Mrs Hudson. I never did "half kill" him as you accused me of doing that last night in the lab at Barts- he was fit enough to return to duty that night when Bond Air didn't take off from Heathrow. But, I never told you that, did I? Well, Mycroft was being funny; 'need to know' and all that._

_So, I don't suppose you will understand why I killed Boris. Strange, I thought there would be some __feeling__ attached to it; a sort of closure, maybe a little sense of revenge? But, there was…nothing, nothing at all. I think that I have become empty, a hollow vessel. What little sense I once had of what was good and not good seems to have vanished. I seem to have left the better part of me behind, with you. Perhaps this is what Moriarty meant, when he said he would burn the heart out of me._

In his mind, there was no answer from John. He wondered if there ever would be, should he ever get back to Baker Street, and should he ever be brave enough to tell the truth about what he did while he was away. _No matter, you're alive- that's all that counts now to a dead man._

* * *

***Author's Note**: "остановитесь - злоумышленник!" = Stop Intruder!; "подавите оружие" = Put the gun down; "Вы подавляете нож" = Put the knife down


	8. Chapter 8

**Still Talking When you're Not There**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

John opened the package carefully. He recognised Mrs Hudson's handwriting on the front where she had addressed it to his new flat. His first reaction when he saw it was guilt. _I should have kept in touch. _ In fact, he had not seen her, spoken with her or even written since he'd left Baker Street more than four months ago. Every time he thought about her, he couldn't help but think about Sherlock, too, and that hurt, so he tried to push her out of his mind, as well. He knew it was wrong, and unfair. She had loved Sherlock with an maternal attachment, been willing to put up with his oddities, his tantrums and the inevitable consequences for the flat- from bullet holes in the wall to chemical burns on the kitchen table. She had even been willing to forgive him the night that Moriarty's first bomb went off across the street and decimated her beloved Baker Street.

So, it was some trepidation that he opened the padded envelope and peeked inside. There was a note and a bubble-wrapped object. He opened the lilac coloured writing paper, and read

_Dearest John_

_I hope this finds you well and that your new flat is comfortable. I won't pretend that I don't miss you. The two of you filled more for me than just the flat upstairs, but you know that, so I won't go on and get us both upset all over again. People sent by Sherlock's brother came and cleared the flat some time ago and took all of his things away. I've had workmen in to do some repairs (yes, I am still cross about the damage to the wall; why on earth did you ever let him find your gun?) and one of them found a loose floorboard in his bedroom. Underneath it, this was found. It brought back a lot of memories- some good, some not so good. You know, my bins still have dents in them! According to ebay, it's worth a lot of money. I thought you might want to either keep it or sell it. In any case, you know I don't need a mobile phone, so I thought you should have it._

_If you are ever in the area, you know that I would love to see you._

_With love,_

_Una Hudson_

He pulled the bubble wrap off the phone. THE phone, the Vertu that had belonged to Irene Adler. Too many memories came flooding back: watching Sherlock on his bed that Christmas Eve with the open box containing the phone, when John overheard him say to his brother that she would be found dead that night. Or the first time Sherlock tried to unlock the password with the number of John's blog viewers, when the counter got stuck ( …_maybe you've been hacked!)_. Then there was the night when Mrs Hudson pulled it from her bra after hiding it there from that CIA man. (_Safest place I know, John_) Of course, months later, Irene had returned and Sherlock had tried to trick her into unlocking it, when she got him to break that code. John had never been told the full meaning of that code, nor what had happened that night. Sherlock just told him that it was over, he'd broken the password, handed over the phone to Mycroft and that "The Woman has been beaten." When he had pressed for details, he'd been told he could say no more for security reasons. (_I never want to hear her name again, John.)_

But, perhaps the most lasting memory was the last time he saw the phone. Months later, when Mycroft pushed it across the table in Speedy's and told him to lie to Sherlock about Irene's death.

He said at the time that Sherlock had despised the woman, that he didn't feel things that way. _But what did I know? I never dared to ask him what he really felt. I was too afraid that he might say he cared for her. I __was__ jealous; she was right._

He'd really, really struggled with that. _Why did I lie to you? You deserved better. I should have told you the truth_. That he didn't was just another sign of things going wrong between them in those last few months. But, Sherlock's reaction to his statement about Irene being in America surprised him. He knew that his friend would deduce the lie, but instead of challenging him, he just let the lie stand. All he wanted was the phone. There was no emotion at all. He must have known she was dead, but he was not prepared to talk to John about it. _Why did you do that, Sherlock? More important, why did I let you get away with it?_

To be honest, John had been relieved when Mycroft told him that she had been beheaded in Pakistan. Not a nice way to go, for sure. But, he'd never trusted her, never liked the games she played with Sherlock's emotions. She was dangerous, a toxic mix of intelligence, manipulation and pure sexual dominance. Far too much of a threat to someone as emotionally inexperienced and innocent as Sherlock was. She brought out John's most protective instincts about his friend. So, at the time, he had not regretted lying to protect Sherlock. It was what a friend did. _I was an idiot- a selfish idiot._

As Big Ben tolled in the New Year, he'd asked Sherlock "So, she's alive; how do we feel about that?" Now, looking at the phone in his hand, he realised he should have asked how he felt about her death, too. John would not regret her death, no – not one little bit. But, maybe, if he could have convinced Sherlock to talk to him about what her death meant to him, then it would have built a bridge, a way of talking about his feelings. When Moriarty returned, a willingness to speak about feelings between them might have led somewhere else other than the rooftop at Barts.

John would sell the phone. Otherwise, its presence would remind him day after day of just how much he had failed his best friend.


End file.
